


Heliamphora

by hannahrhen



Series: Heliamphora [1]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-03
Updated: 2011-12-03
Packaged: 2017-10-26 20:21:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/287454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahrhen/pseuds/hannahrhen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She’d stumbled on them doing her last pass of the cameras before leaving for the night--one view after the other, all the expected Hub images, until … those fingers, hands, wrists. They’d gotten her attention."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heliamphora

The first thing she noticed were their fingers, hands, and wrists.

Ianto’s wrist, his left, was pressed against the wall--hard against the industrial cinderblock, nails at the end of his fingers scratching convulsively against the gray gloss finish of the Archive depths.

Jack’s fingers braceleted Ianto’s wrist, his thumb pressed firmly on the exposed outer joint, and at least two fingers circled around the soft underside. Feeling, no doubt, every twitch of Ianto’s gripping fingers. Holding him in place.

She’d stumbled on them doing her last pass of the cameras before leaving for the night--one view after the other, all the expected Hub images, until … those fingers, hands, wrists. They’d gotten her attention. She’d settled fully back into her chair.

It wasn’t the first time she’d caught them unawares on camera, talking, working, bickering, flirting, but she’d never seen them this way, frozen in place. Something in Ianto’s body language caught her attention, and her eyes widened when she saw his pose. She adjusted the camera angle--slowly, to avoid attention--to better get them both in the frame. It wasn’t perfect; she had all of Ianto from crown to waist, but Jack’s back was mostly to her, only the curved outline of right cheek, jaw, and shoulder familiar as he pressed close.

Too close--for whatever he was doing.

What _was_ he doing?

Ianto was leaned against the wall, head tilted toward Jack, but there was nothing casual in his pose. His left arm was stretched down to his side, wrist caught in Jack’s fingers, yes, but the rest of him was tense, hunched, contracted into a smaller space than he usually occupied. He had his waistcoat on, tie loose, trousers--jacket discarded somewhere. He was Ianto at the end of the day, weary, but with something more weighing him down.

Jack, in contrast, was … _Looming_ was probably the best word for it. It was hard to tell from the grainy view offered by her computer, but his face couldn’t have been more than a few centimeters from Ianto’s, and he was animated. His shoulders and back were growing with each breath. He was talking, clearly, but the silent video offered nothing. She hated to name it, but Ianto looked … ashamed? Afraid? And Jack …

Was Jack angry?

With Ianto’s reaction, it wasn’t flirting.

Though she couldn’t hear them, she knew Jack was the only one talking; Ianto was silent, lips pressed together. Ianto had been frequently silent since … since they found out about Lisa, and efforts to engage him at all were often awkward, but she tried, and Jack tried. She thought things between them had gotten better--even caught some exchanges that were hard to interpret--smiles and jokes that she dismissed as she heard them but that insisted on being reevaluated hours later.

Each exchange had two perfect meanings--blustering boss and uncertain, eager-to-please underling, or Jack and … Jack’s prey. His willing prey. His _something_.

Had she misinterpreted the peace between them? Were things still so tense? She wondered if this was Jack’s last stand, forcing Ianto against this wall to make him realize that things had to change, that Ianto had to do better. Be better. Ianto’s head was tilted down, and his face was shaded, but he kept glancing up at Jack--just a moment at a time, brief flutters before he looked back down.

Chastened, then.

He nodded. A pause, and he nodded again. Jack closed the space between them even more, if possible, and expanded as he breathed--lecturing? Pleading? Threatening?

After Ianto’s third quick nod, and after a long, ugly breath, Jack pulled his arm back--his left arm, he was still holding onto Ianto’s wrist with the right--and slammed his fist into the wall just next to Ianto’s head. She jumped in her seat as Ianto jerked, too, pulling away slightly--what was he _doing_ , for God’s sake? That must have hurt unbelievably, but his hand just clawed the wall, slapping it once more in obvious frustration. Were Jack’s reprisals about to turn physical? God, what would she do if they did?

Ianto looked up fully, eyes wide, and said … something.

 _Yes, sir._

With Ianto talking in simple words, she understood his replies to Jack’s remaining questions by watching his mouth move, phrases she knew so well from him: _Yes, sir. Yes, sir. No, sir. Of course, sir. Yes ... **Jack**_.

A deep breath.

 _ **Jack**._

Oh, Ianto. Her heart pounded.

At the last, whether uttered as plea or reassurance, Jack finally relaxed. She could read it in the diminishing lines of his back. He exhaled, or stood down, or came undone, but suddenly he was right-sized again, no longer menacing. Ianto’s eyes were still wide, and he looked--well, she knew without the insufficient visuals of the CCTV that his complexion had darkened, flushed. Chin angled downward again, but eyes sharp, watching. This was the Ianto she had only seen briefly--but memorably--ready to fight.

Jack, finally, released Ianto’s wrist, and Ianto pulled it closer to his body, rubbing the soft inner skin against the fabric of his trousers over his thigh, rubbing away the pressure. Jack, on the other hand … Jack put both hands to Ianto’s face, held it for a meaningful moment, and then let go.

Jack dropped to his knees.

Her mouth went slack.

What was he--? She stopped. No … no, she wasn’t that naive. But, just how long had it been going this way? Ianto’s posture was still projecting submission, but his face--his mouth--wasn’t. He smiled. He smiled down fondly, secretly, at Jack, who was now almost out of camera range, but whose actions were unambiguous. She could see his dark hair, his hands darting in and out of view. After a few moments--enough for Jack to get Ianto’s clothing out of the way, enough to … start, Ianto reached down and put two hands on Jack’s skull, tangling into his hair.

At one more apparent, unseen command from Jack, one that made Ianto react a little with … surprise? … the fond smile disappeared and the facade--for that’s, apparently, what it was--returned: Ianto lifted his arms above his head, twisted them in a pose that reminded her, ridiculously enough, of the iconic images of Saint Sebastian. Gay patron, indeed. Ianto’s flush was back, more extreme now, and his expression, beatific.

Oh.

More than merely consensual, then. Not a first time. She wondered how long they’d been doing this, for Ianto to be so practiced at the role-play. She wondered how much Jack understood that this was role-play … or if, to Jack, this was part of his astonishingly successful office disciplinary procedures. Good luck--the ecstasy on his subordinate’s face had nothing to do with being coerced or cowed, and right now, there was no shame in the line of his body, arched against the wall, wrists and arms twisting together over his head, tie hanging slack around his neck. He was being worshipped.

She could still read his lips: _Jack. Please. Sir._

Finally, his body tensed once more, and shivered all over, and he quickly and artlessly shoved a fist in his mouth to muffle the sounds. She knew Jack had found Ianto far down in the Archives, but she wondered, still, if she would have heard him otherwise.

Jack stood, again just a partial profile from her view, but she had no doubt of his actions as he gripped Ianto’s face in his hands again and kissed him, hard. She wondered, before she could stop herself, if Ianto liked the taste. After that … display, she wouldn’t doubt it.

Pulled back together, Ianto resumed his former pose, reluctant, withdrawn … but Jack tilted his chin up and said--something--that got a smile, a genuine, knowing smile. A game, then--wasn’t it? Ianto, everyone’s butler, everyone’s teaboy, taking his image that much further to please Captain Jack. She’d never known Jack to respond to shrinking violets, but, then, he knew more than anyone what Ianto was capable of. A shy violet with a pitfall trap to fall willingly, joyfully into.

So, was that the game? The teaboy gets on his knees (so to speak) to offer symbolic penance, or else Jack takes it out of his hide? Jack’s satisfaction at bending this unpredictable, dangerous young man to his will?

Jack had pulled Ianto by the hand out of the camera’s line of sight, and she was loath to try to find them again. For all she knew, they were heading back up to the main level now--to Jack’s office or his bed. She was long overdue to leave. Grabbing her bag and coat (and taking care to shut off the CCTV screens), she walked quickly to the door.

She would let them play--and, God, she hoped it was play--their games in peace.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by stories that straddled the line between consent and dubcon--"eye of the beholder" territory.


End file.
